


Fear and Whiskey

by MoriartyMistress



Category: X-Men, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Apocalypse, X-Men: Days of Future Past, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF, apocalypse - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Cliffhanger, Depression, Gen, Implied Cherik, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nightmares, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sad Ending, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tears, Trauma, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoriartyMistress/pseuds/MoriartyMistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post X-Men: Apocalypse<br/>After his traumatizing encounter with En Sabah Nur, Charles Xavier is highly disheartened and falls into an old habit.  He is haunted by what he deems a failure on his part, blinded from rationality by constant nightmares, fear, and whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear and Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> Writer Tag: #Invicta  
> Charles Xavier account: @Professor_CX  
> It took me a month to finally finish this just because I struggled to find a way to organize my thoughts. I hope you enjoy it. AND you have been warned that this can be TRIGGERING.  
> ***Any dialogue in italics occur inside Charles's mind.***

            “Professor . . .”

            The voice seemed so distant.  Whether it was dream or reality, it was hard to tell in the tangled mass of noise in his head.

            _“Charles Xavier . . .”_

            _No, no, no, no.  It can’t be._   He shutters in his sleep.  Except… Was he sleeping?

            Pen in hand, sitting at his desk, he had been peacefully grading papers one second.  Next thing he knows, he is _there_ in that cursed temple of a false god.  It was all wrong, yet it felt far too real.

            “Professor . . .”

            There was that voice again.  Louder this time.  So familiar, but too distant to bring much comfort.  He was alone and the despair of that truth overwhelmed him.  His own voice echoed in his head, familiar words: “ _And what about me? Do I have any role to play in this madness?”_

            _“You have the most important role of all.”_   That voice, thick with cruelty even with his words pronounced in a sickeningly seductive purr.  _“Despite my long life, there is one thing I cannot do that you can_. _”_

            The dread clenched around his throat tighter than the straps that held him to the table.

            _“Be everywhere . . . be . . . everyone.”_

            Time was running out and ticked by faster the more he struggled against his restraints.  Charles was becoming consumed by the darkness, the kind of darkness that made a person go deaf as well as blind, but he could still feel the presence of that ancient monster lying just a few feet from him.  His greedy mind seeping into his own, and—

            _“No!  NO!  Get out!  GET OUT!”_

            “GET OUT!”  His blankets became more tangled as the telepath struggled in his sleep, haunted by a presence no longer there and shackled by invisible chains.  Hank McCoy, the owner of that voice so familiar, starts to shake his dear friend now in an attempt to break him loose from the prison of his mind. 

            “Charles!  Charles!  Wake up!  It’s just a dream.  Charles!”

            _“Charles . . . It’s over, Charles.  You’re finished.  You’re mine now._ ”  The distorted memory continues with the telepath falling deeper into an indescribable darkness.  He could feel a sickening cruelty in his own heart and a lust for power and domination, forced to watch as En Sabah Nur destroyed the world he loved and enslaved the ones he kept closest to his heart, forced to hear the cries of his friends plead for his mercy without the ability to respond.

            The agony was coming to a climax with the defiance and execution of his beloved Erik when Charles was slapped back into reality, and it was only then that the professor realized he had been screaming.  He sits up in a hurry, heart racing in his chest and face wet from tears and sweat.

            Hank . . . Hank was there, grabbing his shoulders and trying to get the disabled man to focus, apologizing about having to slap him.  “Charles . . . Charles, I’m sorry.  I had to. You were screaming bloody murder.  Are you with me, Charles?”  The softy of a scientist asks in a soothing tone, cupping his friend’s cheeks and trying to catch the dazed telepath’s gaze.

            _“Charles . . . Charles.”_ He closes his eyes again to concentrate. _“My name is Charles Xavier.  I am a telepath . . ._ ” He begins the mental ritual he has done ever since he first realized his gift and started to have uncontrollable nightmares, which were only sometimes his own and if they were his, were about losing control of his own mind.  “ _I can see into other people’s minds, but I am in fact Charles Xavier.  Whatever it was that I just experienced was a dream.  It was just a dream.  Just a dream._ ”

            He swallows thickly and shuts his eyes for a second, regaining control of his breathing.  “Just a dream,” he whispers aloud before opening his eyes again and turning to face Hank.  “Thank you, Hank . . .  For waking me.”

            The other mutant nods quickly, letting him go, “Of course.  A-are you okay now?”  “ _That’s a stupid question.  Clearly he’s not okay,”_ rang Hank’s thoughts in the telepath’s mind beside all his other students’ quiet thoughts from their individual rooms.  Charles pinches the bridge of his nose as if that would dull his aching mind, his eyes closed shut, “I am _fine_ , Hank.”  His tone must have come out harsher than he intended because the timid scientist flinched just a little.  The professor looks apologetically at Hank and takes his hand in his, “I’m sorry.  Yes, I am perfectly fine, thank you.”

            Hank nods, “Let me grab you a glass of water?  Possibly some painkillers too.  It looks like you have a headache.”

            “No, Hank, that isn’t necessary . . .” But before he could finish, Hank was gone, off to save Charles again and leaving the professor to wonder what he could have possibly done to be lucky enough to have a friend like Hank McCoy. 

            Once he was alone, he covers his face again, wiping it of sweat and tears.  His head was aching with a terrible migraine and his heart ached from the shock of his nightmare.  How alone he had felt, and now here he was in the middle of a mansion full of students and friends, who would risk their lives in a heartbeat for him, who had risked their lives and saved him.  They praised him for having taught them to believe in themselves, but he didn’t think for a second that he had any part in their outstanding bravery and loyalty.  However, though he welcomed their presence and friendship, he could not bear even their dreamy thoughts crowding his mind.  They were whispers in the dark; they haunted him.

            The telepath lets out a shuttering sigh and throws off his covers, scooting to the foot of his bed slowly to get to his chair.  On a normal day, the tedious task of having to carefully drag his useless legs down his bed would have been a mere, unfortunate part of his daily routine, but under the circumstances, on nights such as these, it became heartache.  He persists, however, until finally he can ease onto his chair carefully, looking longingly towards the drawer in his bedside table that held his precious serum.  One pinch is all it would take to rid him of both the voices and the burden of paralysis.

            In the past, he might have succumbed to his desire to suppress his mutation and regain what he lost that would make him feel like a normal man again, but he had grown out of his addiction and self-pity.  He was older, even if it was only by a few years, and wiser.  More importantly, he had his children to look after and mentor, and he could not do that if he could not face his own struggles.  Still, that did not mean he could not have a drink to calm his nerves.

            He wheels his way to the corner of his room that held his little table with its cabinets filled with his secret stash of various alcohol.  Charles pulls out a bottle of whiskey and grabs one of his crystal glasses.  Popping the bottle open, he pours the toxic liquid with a shaking hand, the silence of his room disturbed by the quiet clinking of the bottle’s neck against the rim of the glass.  He wastes no time, bringing his antidote to his lips and downing the whiskey in a few gulps easily.  It was when he was setting his glass down to fill it once again that Hank returned, closing the door behind him.

            Charles barely glances at him, knowing that expression the scientist had on his face all too well and not being able to face it: fear and concern.  The telepath could feel it in his heart, the worry Hank felt, watching as Charles filled his second glass of alcohol.  The scientist’s thoughts were clear inside his own mind, and it shamed him, made him feel guilty.

            “It’s only my second glass, Hank.  I promise I won’t let it get out of control.”  He brings the glass to his lips and takes a small sip.  “Do you have the painkillers?” He asks, squinting up at him, his headache growing worse.

            The scientist hesitates before walking forward with two pills in a napkin and a tall glass of water.  He never brought Charles the entire bottle of pills anymore, not since Hank had seen the professor in his darkest state.  No, no matter how well his friend seemed to be doing, he couldn’t bring himself to risk it ever again.  “Charles, you really shouldn’t mix these with your drink . . . Maybe you shouldn’t . . .”

            The professor gives him a patient smile, knowing exactly what Hank was thinking, “I’ve only had a glass, Hank.  It will be perfectly fine.  You do not have to worry about me.”  Bless his soul.  No one had ever cared so deeply about Charles than Hank had, and not a day went by that he did not wonder at how he had won such loyalty. 

            “Give me the bottle first, Charles, please . . .” He had meant for his tone to be firm, but it came out timid and thick with worry instead.

            “Hank, please. Don’t do this again.  It was a nightmare.  I know,” he gives Hank a soft smile, hiding behind it a world of fear; “I just want to rid my migraine and go back to bed.” Charles extends a hand for the painkillers, and after a few hesitant seconds, the other mutant gives in, handing it to him.  The telepath downs them with the rest of his alcohol, ignoring the protest in Hank’s eyes as he does. 

            There was a silence in the room as Charles hesitantly recaps his bottle of whiskey and sets it on the table, which elicits a sigh of relief from Hank.  “This is the fifth time this week.  Is it about Apocalypse again?”

            Charles swallows thickly, grimly staring at the empty glass on the table, and shakes his head, “It’s just a nightmare, Hank.  No need to worry.”  He gives Hank a reassuring smile, “You should get to bed now.  I’m sorry I keep waking you in the middle of the night.”

            The worried friend looked rather hurt, feeling Charles close the doors on him, and it immediately made the telepath feel guilty.  Yes, of all the people he had met in his life, Hank was the one who had been there at his worst, taken care of him at his darkest hour.  Trust was not the issue.  This, what he was feeling, he didn’t want to share with even Hank.  It was irrational fear, but one that made him stop breathing and that consumed his mind into another reality.  In all his life, he had never had a nightmare as intense as the ones he has had since his encounter with the false, mutant god.  Irrational.  Real.  And something he wanted to keep to himself.

            Thinking back on his dream had made his hands start trembling again, but Hank, thankfully, didn’t notice.  “Don’t worry about it.  Good night, Charles.” Carefully and quietly, Hank left for his room across the hall, and Charles waited for his footsteps and thoughts to die down into that of slumber before he opened up his bottle of whiskey again. 

            Third glass.

            How long had it been since his last drink?  It couldn’t have been since he had decided to restart his school.  He had become so busy with excitement and rekindled hope to think of pouring a glass of anything that would hinder his work.  Now look at him.  Reduced back to the bottle, chased to it by fear.  It numbed his senses and put him to bed; it gave him a sense of control, that wasn’t true.  

            It helped him escape the voice, which purred in his ear: “ _Weak.”_

            His hands shook as he brought his drink to his lips and downed it in a few gulps.  Pouring more of the pure, brown liquid and spilling some on his leg during the process, he concentrates on the attempt to find any topic that wasn’t about his nightmare, though it was, of course, hopeless.  It always was in desperate times, or so it seemed, the drink never helping as Charles wished it would.

            Fourth glass.

            “ _You’re unfit to lead a generation of mutants, too naïve.  How could you?  You’re one of them: scared and powerless, bowing under the weight of your own gift.  Pathetic._ ”

            Fifth glass.

            _“You couldn’t keep him out.  You couldn’t control your own mutation when someone else could.  He didn’t even have to try._ ”

            “Enough . . .” he growls quietly under his breath, feeling the weight of guilt and shame crush down on him.  That nagging voice, which has been with him all those years, his own, taunting voice of doubt and fear, were mixing with the other voices swarming in his mind, and for a split second, he could have sworn he heard the voice of the ancient beast.  

            He could control this . . . He could control it . . .

            _“This feels so familiar, doesn’t it, Charlie?  Don’t you feel so young again? Everyone is in your mind constantly, forcing their ugly thoughts on you.  You can hardly think.  Oops.  You dropped your drink_.”

            The telepath didn’t hear the breaking of the crystal glass on his floor.  He looks down and curses, leaning down and trying to clean it up with napkins.  It was half-hearted at best, and once the bigger pieces have been disposed of, he abandons the task for another drink.

            Sixth glass.  Things were becoming rather dizzy, and the alcohol only helped to cloud Charles’s mind rather than clear it.  

_“That’s right.  Drink your consciousness away.”_

            Seventh glass.

            “ _You’re a sad man, Charlie.  But it’s alright.  At least you have everyone fooled._ ”

            “I am not the man I used to be,” he retorts silently back to himself.

            _“You’ll always be that man.  Depressed.  Scared.  Alone.  How ironic.  Surrounded by voices yet so lonely.  It’s another level of loneliness no one can understand, not Raven, not Hank, not Erik._ ”

            Eighth glass.

            “ _Instead they push you all away, don’t they, Charles?_ ” “Yes . . .” “ _‘GET OUT OF MY HEAD!’ they say, not even considering the fact that maybe it’s them in_ our _head!”_ The voice sounded angrier, and the grip on the glass in the professor’s hand grew tighter with a mixture of pain and anger.  “They couldn’t possibly understand that.  I forgive them for it.  They have troubles of their own far worse than mine,” he whispers aloud this time, shutting his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks.  He was going mad.  He was always mad.

            “ _Of course.  Of course.  Forgive them.  Everything for them.  Protect them.  And you know the best way to protect them._ ”

            Charles lets out a shuttering sigh as he pours himself another drink.  Will there be no rest for him?

            Ninth glass.

            “ _You’ve thought about it for years, Charles.  Apocalypse was your final proof you need.  It is dangerous having you alive and unable to protect yourself.  Your legs are useless, and Apocalypse proved how defenseless even your mutation is.  You’re a pathetic attempt at a great man, and it is such a pity.  You had such potential._ ”

            There were no arguments there.  Disappointment and failure weighed down on his shoulders, his eyes glancing over at the larger pieces of the shattered glass he had picked up earlier.  He remembered when he was younger and heard the thoughts of those thinking of taking their own life . . . he had been so terrified, still being a young boy and not understanding their feelings of despair.  He definitely understood them now.

            Hank would understand.  Raven would understand.  Erik . . . Erik would survive.  They would all understand, even his students.  Charles would be leaving them in capable hands, hands that were more useful than his own.  It made sense . . . It all made perfect sense.

            What he would give not to think.

                        What he would give not to listen to everyone’s thoughts.

                                    What he would give not to risk everyone’s lives because he was too _weak_ to keep control of his own mind.

            He puts his glass down on the table quietly next to the half empty bottle of whiskey and picks up the largest shard carefully in his hand.

            Fear was a powerful emotion, and how it could distort a person’s reality.  


End file.
